


All my inhibitions have been muzzled

by fvartoxin



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: An aside from an RP server I'm in., I could have done a lot of things with this prompt., I...didn't really?, Oral Sex, Other, Trans Jonathan Crane, Trans Male Character, an attempt at fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 05:17:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23473015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fvartoxin/pseuds/fvartoxin
Summary: “Not to get all poetic here, but eventually I suppose the city bleeds everything from you.”I have two Scarecrow ships and neither of them make a lick of sense, but I'll die on this hill. I will absolutely die on this hill. Happily.
Relationships: Jonathan Crane/Charles Brown, Kite-Man/Scarecrow
Kudos: 13





	All my inhibitions have been muzzled

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place at least a year before the Sionis plotline in current RP. So they've definitely been familiar with each other for a bit! Not super long, but hey. It started as a prison thing and it's unlikely to last, whether due to their massive age gap or something else. Also, in anything I write with Kite-Man his wife's name is Jennifer because I find it very fitting. 
> 
> While I actively wanted to do more with this prompt, it's a little...bland because writer muse was just like "not today, Satan" when it came to that particular thing for over a week. Just didn't exactly work out how I wanted it to. Overall I'm unsatisfied with this for multiple reasons and spot points where I could have done better, but maybe someone will get enjoyment out of it. Also I've only attempted to write oral once, several years ago when I was still a minor, and I never finished it. So here we go again. 
> 
> While I do plan on exploring how my interp. of Scarecrow tends to be distant with his lovers, as well as how he operates around different people in general, this isn't really the piece and my motivation fluctuates like hell. This is also not the place to explore how these two first came into contact, but I can tell you that it's unfortunate and involves deceased children. 
> 
> Also the only reason the line "Hey, you could make a Georgia reference out of that!" even exists was because I wrote that while high off sleep deprivation at 4 AM and thought it was absolutely hilarious. Therefore I kept it in.

This could have been more ideal; there was no argument against that from either side. While Charles wasn’t one to verbally complain, he _was_ a tad easier to read than the excessively-worn, small-print hardback of _The Great Gatsby_ that Crane was currently clutching in one hand. Kite-Man, as most called him, was of those types who wore his heart on his sleeve…if at times unintentionally. 

Given some of the disgraced psychologist’s own past intimate dealings, this made for an intriguing change. Not necessarily a welcomed one, but it was a marked shift in the usual pace of things all the same. 

Even if few developments which held his interest tended to last in Gotham. 

Engrossed in both thought and reading as he was, (most surprisingly) he didn’t register that Charles had even asked him a question until the man politely tapped him on the unclothed thigh. He took the moment to half-assedly stretch in place before responding; aching back arching against the wrought-iron frame of Arkham’s prisoner beds, feet digging into the bedspread on the sides of the other’s torso. Even a pillow or several couldn’t help with how stiff and uncomfortable those frames were. 

Of course, it probably didn’t help that he was using said bedframe to shoulder the majority of his weight at present moment. On a more positive note, at least the beds in the lower wards could be moved if one desired them to; thanks to that neither of the men, Crane in his partially sitting, bent-legged stance nor Charlie on his knees, head between the old doctor’s too-slim thighs, would have to sit on the floor should they change positions. Though, that also meant it was far more likely they’d be discovered. “My apologies. Hearing seems to be going these days. If yeh’d mind repeating that?” He dropped the book, and lovingly draped its open spine over his pigeon chest before squinting down at the D-lister. Shoulder-length, graying hair fanned out around him. 

“Sorry.” He flashed a nervous grin. “Jaw got tired.” As though the apology was actually needed! But, far be it from him to not have an ounce of respect for others; provided they weren’t one Edward Nygma, that was. “I think it’s getting lighter outside,” he mused, and jerked his head towards the barred window at the far end of the cell. Indeed, the soft purple-black of twilight was fading, resplendent orange and golden tones taking its place. 

Dawn.

“Sure is,” he mused as he twisted his scarred neck to see; then turned back to look the younger Rogue in his functional eye. “On the bright side – _ha_ – reading light’s better now.” On the dimmer side of things, the guards would be doing their morning rounds soon enough. Part of him didn’t fancy being literally dragged through the building when discovered, provided they still cared about inmate canoodling, and the rest had decided to be a mixture of apathetic about the situation and weary. Which was a fairly standard emotional state of his, all things considered. 

At this Charlie chuckled, soft though the sound was, and propped himself up on one elbow. “Geez. That was terrible.” If an oddly _human_ remark coming from someone who the public, gossipers that they were, so often theorized was a completely soulless husk of a being. “I’m surprised they let you have reading material…or did you just take it from the rec room?” His brow furrowed. 

“Sense of humor’s gotten a tad rusty over the years,” he grunted in response. Then his gaze flicked back to the novel, and he slowly trailed a finger along its tattered edge in silence before continuing. “Good behavior. Suppose that’s more than someone like Nygma can say, hmm? Bless his heart.” 

“I never pictured you as a romantic.” There it was, that almost puppy-like head tilt. 

“And you’d be right about that.” Absentmindedly, he hooked a leg over the hang glider pilot’s back. “Apart from the fact Arkham’s library is severely lacking, superficiality just fascinates me. Decay ‘neath decadence. That, and Fitzgerald was a goddamned hypocrite, as so many tend to be.” 

“Suppose so, yeah.” The contortionist’s added weight made him tense for the briefest of seconds. 

“In the interest of my _not_ sounding like some high school English teacher any further and attracting unwanted attention – Lord knows I’ll rant — I may just shut up for a while.” So once again Crane picked up his book; resisting the urge to squirm from the lack of physical stimulation. Six decades on this earth, and while he still possessed mixed emotions on being incited to climax from oral stimulation, if pressed to classify the feeling he didn’t _quite_ hate it. Hate was an awfully strong word, after all. 

Yet, he’d amassed perfectly good reasons to not have received oral in years. As a whole, there was nothing particularly convenient about intercourse with another, really…but, the sections where the majority of lower-tier Rogues were imprisoned were far less monitored in aspects, and it was marginally better than teasing yourself to climax, in the middle of the night, in a cramped cell with no real privacy. Which, admittedly, he had been doing off-and-on for the past week; if only because the urge to get off had become too much to bear even for a brain-damaged and dying middle-aged man. He didn’t envy the night security for having to look through _that_ footage. 

Fuck Isley. Not in _that_ sense of the word, but here he’d gone out of his way to avoid her and she’d dosed him with whatever the hell she’d brewed up most recently anyhow. Next time he saw her, he’d shank her in the carotid just for the hell of it. Mess wasn’t his forte, fittingly so considering he’d been a neurosurgeon for several years, but it seemed appropriate. Let her become fertilizer for the damned plants she so loved. He grinned into the novel, and turned another page. 

Poor Kite-Man may have had his moments, but even he could pick up on this change in mood. “You, uhh, doing alright?” 

He lowered it again, peering over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses. “ _Peachy_.” Hey, you could make a Georgia reference out of that! Loosely, anyway. “You?” 

“Fine.” He tried not to think about the awkward aspect to this whole situation. “Think I can get back to it now if you wa-“

“By all means,” he sighed airily. 

He did, and Crane grumbled something under his breath as the makings of rough beard hair brushed against his lower stomach. Then Charlie drew back and briefly slipped a hand into the equation, rolling the damp, fatty tissue of his outer labia between the pad of a thumb and forefinger before once again moving on to tongue. 

At least he’d had the forethought to landscape a little. Was he a veritable asshole? Yes. But occasionally, he was…slightly less of an asshole. When the mood struck, anyway. Besides, the steel wool-esque condition of that pubic hair flush against his clitoral hood did _him_ no favors in daily life. But, enough about that. He draped a hand over his partner’s head, digging skeletal fingers into shaggy brown hair as the other’s tongue stroked his hood. 

Well, reading one-handed was certainly doable. Slow, but doable. 

It was a while before he was next truly aware of his surroundings; probably not _ideal_ considering that it inevitably would be daybreak, and that they’d likely have to face a few minutes of awkward questioning by guards if nothing else. The only reason he’d snapped out of it was a pained hiss from Charles as Crane’s bony heel dug into the spot between his shoulderblades. Yet he did not offer verbal comfort, merely sighed deeply and took a moment to drop the offending appendage back onto the bedspread. 

There was a kind of entertainment to occasionally stealing a glance at the former professor’s face, half hidden behind yellowed paper it was; lower jaw trembling at sporadic intervals, eyes snapping closed here and there as he probed particularly sensitive spots (and those dark pits had been sealed for quite some time when he’d parted the other’s inner labia and added a couple of fingers to the equation, vigorously massaging the drenched flesh). Not that Charlie would admit that. It was kind of a weird thing to think about, in his honest opinion. Maybe not if he’d been doing this with literally anyone other than the Scarecrow, though. Who was…surprisingly horny, and definitely a tad repressed, for a middle-aged man of his temperament? 

He wouldn’t question that further, and instead chose to focus on how the man’s legs were spreading wider barely of his own volition; breath rasping wetly in his warped throat and periodically stilling for several seconds at a time. That copy of _The Great Gatsby_ had been set aside in a moment of clarity, lying upside-down on the sheets. 

All things considered, Jennifer had been a lot more responsive to being given head (or in the context of any sexual act, for that matter), and was _definitely_ more engaged in the situation. But, to a degree this was fascinating all the same. There was little fanfare when the pile of skin and bones in front of him reached orgasm, head lolling back onto the bedframe as his eyes briefly fluttered shut. Things _were_ , however, warm. Also quite wet, but even given how years of testosterone tended to atrophy a vagina, that wasn’t surprising. 

Charlie muttered a “’Scuse me for a moment. You know how it is,” drew away, and got up to wash his face; among other things. The sinks in the asylum were small, but they got the job done. 

There was a stillness to the scene, broken only by the sound of running water as well as the creak of bedsprings as Crane shifted onto his side. 

“I…appreciated that.” Were his words a tad stilted; a tad cautious? Yes. Yet they were better than a brusque ‘Thank you’, in his mind. “If you’re up for my returning the favor, I’m here.” 

“No need.” The water shut off. “Just happy to, well…help. You mind if I sit by you?” 

“Go on ahead. I ain’t fixin’ to stop you.” 

He did so just as Crane rose and slowly, unsteadily limped over to the other side of the cell; respectfully turning his head away from the man as he sat to piss. “You know,” he mused, “if somebody told the me of years ago about any of this, I think I would have actually laughed in their face. I mean, I was a married man. Had a growing boy, a happy life. Things sure do change…” Unconsciously, he fiddled with his bare ring finger. 

“…quickly, don’t they, Mr. Brown?” there was a note of bitterness to his tone, then a lengthy pause before he started to speak again; accented by the sound of running water halfway through. “You mind handing me my pants? Never particularly enjoyed being half-naked unless I had to.” For obvious reasons. 

Spotting the garments on the other bed, he flashed a thumbs-up and underhandedly lobbed them at him. “Sure does. But that’s Gotham City for you at its core, isn’t it? Nothing’s keeping me here but Drur now.” As he spoke the words, his shoulders sagged. “It’s just weird to think about. Uncomfortable.” Maybe, just _maybe_ it was a poor idea to be spilling all of this to someone known for wielding sensitive information as a weapon. 

For the moment, he didn’t seem to be too inclined to do anything about it. A minor comfort. As soon as he’d put his pants back on, he crossed the room once again, with uneven steps as always, to sit beside Charlie. “We all pay a price for living here. Some heavier than others.” And indeed, that was the truth. “Not to get all poetic here, but eventually I suppose the city bleeds everything from you.” Invariably, that included one’s life. 

Gotham was cursed. He was convinced of that much; maybe to some degree they both were. “Hey, you think breakfast will taste like something other than salted cardboard for once?”

“Absolutely the hell not. Next question?”


End file.
